Writers are Pudús

Last night I said to my daughter, “I need an animal to draw. I think I’ve drawn them all. Meh hippos, uncaffeinated llamas, rabid tree mice. I’ve even drawn a happy mushroom, and a hipster potato. I need something.”

She looked at her phone and searched the interwebs for a minute. “How about a pudú?”

Because I am not weird at all, I replied, “A pudú that you do so well.”

She looked up. “You’re so weird. They’re cute. Like utterly cute.”

“I’ve never heard of a pudú but if they’re as cute as their name, they’re probably Totesy McDorbsy.” I leaned over her phone to check out this creature of Utter Cuteness. Definitely cute, especially the babies (as babies of most animals are).

She read the description of the little beastie: “Pudús are a very solitary animal whose behavior is widely unknown because of its secretive nature…”

“Oh my God, they’re writers!” I said.

Ignoring me, she continued. “Pudús do not interact socially other than to mate.”

“Oh my God, they’re writers!”

“Easily frightened, they bark when they’re afraid.”

“Oh my God, they’re writers!”

“Their fur bristles and they shiver when angry.”

“Oh my God, they’re writers!”

“Their home range is small, about forty acres, and consists of crisscrossing, well-trodden paths.”